


Of Mabrand, the Axe of Lossarnach.

by gregja21



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, The Silmarillion - Freeform, Tolkien, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:23:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gregja21/pseuds/gregja21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tragic tale of war, love and loss concerning the life of a man of Gondor at the end of the Third Age. Mabrand is the heir of Lossarnach, one of the largest Fiefdoms of Gondor. This tale follows him from his youth in the Vale, through the War of the Ring, and the subsequent military campaigns of Elessar in the early Fourth Age. My first fic. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of The Vale of Lossarnach.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tale set during the War of The Ring, at the eve of the Third Age, and stretches approximately 30 to 40 years into the subsequent Fourth Age. Whilst Tolkien and his son have given some detail regarding the Fourth Age, this is patchy at best. Therefore, although canonical character, dates and events are used where possible, I have had to fill in any gaps required. This is a Tragic piece; more along the lines of ‘The Children of Húrin’ than ‘The Lord of The Rings’. Its focus is not on Elves and Gods, Hobbits or Dwarves, but on the race of Men.

Forlong of Lossarnach was a Man of Gondor. He was a tall man, broad at the shoulder, dark of eye and dark of hair. A long beard framed his strong jaw, and flecks of grey shot through its dark, wiry mass. He was a lover of feasting, of song, of women and of war and blood, of home and his hearth. In battle, he was fierce; orcs and evil men beyond number fell to the great axe of Forlong. In the feasting hall, he was fiercer still. Songs were sung of his skill in battle, but more were sung of his booming, drunken roar and more still of his great gut. Forlong was a greedy man, a loud man, a reckless man, but most of all, a good man. Honourable and strong, Forlong upheld his duty to protect his family, his hall, his people and his home.  
Some say the old blood of Númenor ran through his veins. And that it did; though it was far from strong, diluted by the lesser blood of lesser men. The blood of the north, from the vales of Rhovanion. The blood of Horse-men, from the vast plains of Calenardhon. The blood of the south, from accursed Umbar and the endless deserts of Harad. Like all the Lords of Gondor, Forlong had old blood.  
Forlong held Lordship over Lossarnach, the Vale of Flowers. Like his Father and his Father before him, he grew up under the peaks of The White Mountains, in the shadow of great Mindolluin. Lossarnach was rightly named; for in spring, flowers of all shades and hues spread across its rolling hills like flame. The floor beneath the tall trees of its forests became a rich carpet of blue and purple, and the banks of the river Erui became a lush blanket of red and green and yellow come summer. The farmers of the Vale produced some of the finest crops in all of Gondor, and its herbs and salves were highly prized by healers and kings alike.  
The Hall of the lords of Lossarnach was built onto the south face of Mindolluin itself; a great rocky outcrop at the end of the valley, crowned by a hall of blue stone and a single tower, standing like a pinnacle above the vale floor. The great feasting hall of the keep was famed across the fiefdoms. The cold flagstones were strewn with fresh flowers, soft and fragrant, and its fire pit wound around its tables like a snake of embers, each coal a scale and each flickering spark the sun’s light. Its great iron doors were decorated with endless vines of flowers and scenes of battle and victory, each great warrior of renown wielding his axe with iron fury, the might of the Valar behind every etched strike. Aside from this, the hall was bare. The Lords of Lossarnach cared not for wall hangings or tapestries; the bare stone of Mindolluin was enough for them.  
Forlong loved his halls. And he loved his wife. Fair Marileth, a daughter of Pelagir, raven-haired, emerald-eyed, Forlong’s flower. She was only young when they wed; perhaps too young, sent away by her Father to a man she had never truly met. She was afraid of the great warrior that was to become her Lord and her husband. Yet this did not defeat her. She saw the goodness behind his harsh eyes, and soon the Lady learned to love the Lord. The Lady was kind to the people of Lossarnach, and they loved Marileth as much as the Lord did himself, and took her to calling her the flower of Lossarnach. It was said that none could command the Lord, save only the Steward and his Flower.  
It was soon announced that the Lady was with child, and the land rejoiced. The Vale sprung to life with the news. It seemed as if the very flowers announced the child’s arrival, their heads, raised to the sky, a fanfare of life. The child came in the harshness of winter; snow fell from far above Mindolluin’s peak, smothering the Vale with a thick blanket of frost and snow. And thus to the snow, the child was born. A girl, small and soft and pink. She did not last the night.  
The Vale echoed with Marileth’s screams of despair, and its people responded in kind. There were no feasts to end the year; even Forlong’s indomitable spirit was damaged by the loss of his dear seed. The Vale itself seemed to mourn the death of its child; the following spring, no flowers coloured its green hills, and crops failed to grow in its once-fertile soil. The woods were silent, and it seemed that even the great Erui slowed in mourning. It took many years for the Vale to recover. Yet, in this time of sadness, another child was conceived.


	2. Of Mabrand's Youth

The child proved to be a grievance upon Marileth. The following months were a time of great strife for the Lady and her Lord; it was a relief to all the people of Lossarnach when the child came out of the womb, screaming and wailing. A boy; a new Lord of the Vale. Marileth was left half dead. There were few celebrations that year.  
The named the child Mabrand. He was like his father in all but the eyes; they were a deep, piercing green, like that of the ocean. His mother’s eyes. His cries tumbled through the halls of Forlong like a great sigh of relief; both mother and child lived to see the morning light. Yet there was no sense of happiness. The people took to calling the boy Naeron, the sad one, for he did not possess the usual joy of a child. This would never reach the ears of Forlong, for all lamentation was overshadowed by his blind pride.  
And so, Mabrand came into this world. He grew quickly, and as he grew the Vale began to prosper once again. Even in youth, Mabrand possessed the stubborn nature of his father. He was quick to anger, and displayed a surprising grimness usually possessed by those many times his age. His arrogant commands were like roars, constant and demanding, inspiring frustration and even fear in the most stoic of manservants. ‘He will grow to be a warrior!’ they would all cry. ‘Just like his father’. They were not far from wrong.  
Mabrand spent much of his youth alone. The palace children did not trust him; their parents warning them about Naeron and his misfortune. Many a day would Mabrand spend staring out from the battlements, awaiting the return of his Father from one errand or another. However, under his grim exterior, Mabrand was nothing but compassionate. He would spend many a day wandering the Vale with his mother, picking flowers from its deep green fields of grass. Mabrand could spot the beauty in the smallest of things; some say it was in his Númenorean blood to find love in the woods and forests and vales of his home.  
For a time, all was well in the Vale. One year, when the sun was high in the sky, shimmering over the top of Mindolluin, Marileth desired to visit her kin, in Pelagir. She loved the Vale, for she was its flower, but she longed for the seas of her youth. She longed to taste the salt upon the wings of the wind, and hear the cry of gulls once again.  
“I will not be long, my sweet.” Marileth said to the young boy. And he knew she was right. Pelagir was not a long ride away; she would not be gone long. Forlong was away, in Minas Tirith, with his Lord, the Steward. Forlong always promised he would take Mabrand one day, to visit the White Tower. The Steward had sons, too. He wanted to meet them, one day. Mabrand was a strong boy, a happy boy, but nevertheless, a lonely boy.  
And so Mabrand waited. Every day, like always, he would stand upon the Battlements, looking out across the Vale, awaiting the arrival of his mother. Alas, she never returned.   
It was one day, on the cusp of autumn, when the rider from Pelagir came. Mabrand stood on the battlements when the grey steed cantered over the horizon, the armour of its rider shimmering in the setting sun. He did not bring good news. Marileth, the flower of Lossarnach, had drowned, lost to the deep blue waves of the Sundering Seas.  
Mabrand wept for the loss of his mother. He wept for days, hidden from all deep within his chambers. Forlong was more furious, like a storm unleashed upon the Vale. The temper of Forlong was already that of legend, but none were more fearsome then the Lord of Lossarnach in mourning. The Lord wept for his lost flower, and the Vale wept with him.  
Marileth’s death cast a great shadow of Lossarnach and an even greater shadow over the young Lord. It is said that Mabrand never truly recovered from his mother’s death. It made him stronger, fiercer, wiser and warier. More and more would people make comment on his likeness to her; especially his eyes. The sea drifted through his eyes. Marileth’s eyes, and Forlong’s heart.  
Forlong did his best to raise the boy. The Lord taught him in the only way he knew; he instructed Mabrand in war, in the axe and in the shield and the horse. Mabrand became strong, stronger than ever, fighting on the crest of his mother’s death. Even still, every evening he would wait, staring into the setting sun of Gondor. Waiting, watching on the battlements for his lost mother.


	3. The Shadow Grows.

Many years passed, and the shadow once again grew in the east. Lossarnach began to feel its cold embrace once more, striking up the fear of ages long since passed. None felt the shadow more than Mabrand. Now a man grown, he became an image of his father in youth. Tall and broad shouldered, and yet to be wed, he struck a head-turning figure in court. His hair, long and dark, was always tied in a knot, and the beginnings of a beard, neatly trimmed, lined his prominent cheeks; a far cry from the ragged figure of his youth. His eyes, however, remained the same. Always green, always mournful, always his mother’s.

Forlong had grown fatter and greyer under the weight of all his years. His hair, once long and dark like his sons, now fell grey and lank from his scalp. His beard, still thick and strong, was now the glimmering silver of frost in the morning. His height and the broadness of his chest still gave him a noble look, but were rather overwhelmed by the sheer size of his gargantuan gut, a round monstrosity underneath the stretched mail of the once-mighty lord. Yet fight, he could still. Forlong had the Axemen of Lossarnach under his command; a proud and historic company of strong vale-men, broad-shouldered and grim, courageous and fierce from their countless campaigns. Each man wielded a mighty battle axe in both hands, sacrificing the defence and safety of a shield for pride and glory. They were highly valued on the battlefield by any Lord of Gondor, for their stoic endurance was second to none. And Mabrand, his beloved son, his only remaining family, was their Captain; always strong, never faltering.

Forlong doubted the shadow in the east for a long while, believing his Vale, his realm, his home, was safe. Mabrand, however, did not; although he was headstrong, Mabrand never held the blindness possessed by his father. Mabrand and his men scouted far south through Ithilien and crossing the Poros, seeking any sign of fell movements. Of orcs, he spied none; the sun in Harondor was bright, and no orc dared travel across its baking plains. However, where orc dwells not, man gathers. A great band of Southron men marched into Gondorian lands, some even crossing the Poros into Ithilien, perilously close to the haven of Pelagir.

Mabrand and his Axemen came down upon these evil men like a great hammer. They caught the band in a valley, high-walled and covered in brush, striking them with surprise on their side. They were taken unaware; the axes of Lossarnach carved their way through the Southron ranks, leaving no man to run back to his home. Mabrand himself cornered their chieftain; an ugly, dark-skinned hulk, painted and gilded, a little too much orcish blood running through his veins. The young lord took the brute’s head off with a single swipe of his great axe, roaring a wordless victory cry to the heavens as the hot blood splattered his mail. 

The men sang hiss praise; not a single Gondorian lost his life on that day. They rode back to Lossarnach, the chieftains’ head hanging from Mabrand’s saddle, lifeless eyes rolling in their dark sockets. The people of Lossarnach cried out in greeting as Mabrand’s company rode through the Vale. Even with his cursed nature, the people saw in him the compassion of his mother; Mabrand was kind to the people, a shield that guards them from evil things. Mutters of Naeron still came up in feasting halls and around fires, but these were quickly hushed. Mabrand was a good man.

Mabrand rode up into the keep to present the news to his father. Forlong waited, as ever, sprawled out in his carven throne, his huge gut stretching his robe taught as he dined on feast after feast. Mabrand took the head, grey and flecked with dry blood, and dropped it on the stone flags in front of his father’s throne. “You do not fear the shadow, Father?” he spoke. “Southrons, not leagues from Pelagir. The Dark Lord’s forces are moving Father, whether you wish to believe it or not!”

For a time, the hall was silent, save for Forlong’s long, wheezing breaths. Then, the lord spoke, leaning forward in his chair. “You are a fool, Mabrand. A raiding party, nothing more! You speak of the Dark Lord like some wizened lore master of yore, yet you are nothing more than a boy, barely out of his swaddling clothes! What do you know of true war? War is a time for men, not boys. You have tasted blood, son, but nothing more.” Forlong slumped back into his chair and his wheezing gasps.

This time there was no long silence. “You are a fool, Father! A fool!” Mabrand cried, the anger for his ignorant father burning in his eyes. With a final roar, like a wronged child, the young lord stormed out of the hall, turning his back on his father and his home. He did not return for days. Bye then, fresh news had reached the Vale. Osgiliath, the great city on Anduin’s banks, had been attacked by the enemy. A force of foul orcs from Morrannon seized the east bank silently and without warning, slaughtering many good men. The eye had awoken. Smoke rose from the east. War was upon them.


	4. Of the Siege of Gondor

A year passed, and war came to the realms of men. Gondor kept both eyes clearly fixed on the dark rising from beyond the Ephel Duath. Forlong himself was eager. He longed for blood, the death screams of orcs and the steel of his blade. His seemed ignorant of his age; blind as he was, he refused to believe he was not the man of his youth. Mabrand, however, was far more anxious. Like his father, he longed for battle, for glory, yet could not help but feel uneasy. Boromir, Captain of the White Tower, had long since left Gondor for the north, leaving their forces without command and without an idol. Mabrand longed for the power Boromir had over the common man, for none other could inspire such courage.

It was an early day in March when the beacons were lit. Spring had begun, and the flowers of the Vale were yet to open. The people saw it as an omen; shadow had come to Gondor, shrouding the very land itself in darkness and misery. A messenger burst through the great doors into Forlong’s hall, bringing with him news and light. “The beacons of Minas Tirith!” the Messenger cried. “The beacons of Minas Tirith have been lit; the Steward calls for aid!”  
Forlong looked up from his carven throne, a smirk painting his face. He drew a great breath. “And Lossarnach will answer!”  
And so Forlong marched to war. He did not know if he would return to his Vale, yet he no longer cared. War was upon them, and so Lossarnach would answer the call. He assembled his finest men; Mabrand’s men. To take a full force would be suicide; Forlong was a fool when it came to many things, but not when it came to war and the defence of his home.

Mabrand, of course, went with his men and his Father. He refused to stay in Lossarnach when the fate of Gondor rested on Minas Tirith. And so, they marched through the night, across the foothills of Mindolluin to the great Citadel. Forlong and his son rode at the front of the column; bedecked in a huge shirt of grey chainmail and a flowing cloak of grey, Forlong looked every part of his Lordly status. Upon his head sat a simple black helm of steel, and in his hand he held a great spear. Across his back, as it always was in times of war, was the axe of Lossarnach, the ancient steel of its double-bladed head shimmering in the fey moonlight. Flowers and vines were stitched into the leather of its haft with silver thread, and a great spike topped its length. It was the symbol of the lords of Lossarnach, and Mabrand knew that one day it would be his fate to carry it, as his father and his father’s father did before him.

It was sunrise before the Company reached the walls of the Rammas Echor. Here, they met many of the great Lords of Gondor. There was Dervorin of Ringló Vale and his men-at-arms, each one wielding a great tower shield. Archers came from Blackroot Vale, with their lord Duinhir and his sons, all tall and lean like saplings. Golasgil of the Langstrand came with a force of hunters and trappers, all scantily armed saved for his guard, who wore chain armour of the finest steel. From Pinnath Gelin came Hirluin the Fair with a force of hill-men clad in deep woodland green. Last came the Knights of Dol Amroth. Each knight was bedecked in shining plate, and rode under a great banner, a silver ship and a silver swan sailing on a sea of royal blue. The men strode tall and proud like lords, grey of eye and dark of hair. Most mighty was their Lord Imrahil, for he was made in the image of the Kings of old. And so the forces of Gondor had assembled.

It was not long before the force arrived in Minas Tirith. The high midday sun shimmered off the shields of the warriors as they marched through the city’s great gates. Mabrand had been to Gondor’s capital many a time, yet had never been received by a crowd such as this. Hundreds of its people gathered in the courtyard, hanging out of windows, lining the flags and the steps, crying out with joy. Mabrand and his father led the column of men, and the standards of the Vale were lifted high above the heads of his soldiers. Green banners fluttered delicately in the hot wind of spring, the axes and flowers of Lossarnach picked out delicately in gold and silver thread. Shouts began to release from the crowd. “Forlong!” the people cried. “True heart!” “True friend!”

They cried out for his Lord, his father. More importantly, they cried out for salvation, a guardian in this darkest of times. However, there were other utterings, darker utterings. “They have bought too few,” some would say. “Gondor is doomed!”  
Forlong turned his head, and nodded to his son. Without a single word, Mabrand took the war-horn from his saddle and let out a single, long, piercing note, ringing through the streets of Minas Tirith. A herald’s call. Salvation had arrived.

The hope the soldier’s brought to the city did not last, for the darkness had spread across the Pelennor like a plague. The gloom was felt most in the soldier’s quarters. Mabrand walked amongst the huddles of busied, grim men, a stoic and grim figure wandering through the dark. His father was ignorant to the men’s needs, preferring to quarter up in the higher levels with the Steward and his fellow lords. Mabrand still wore his armour; a long shirt of chain was covered by leather and plate, his helm, dark steel like his father’s, tucked under one arm. For days he walked like this, restless like countless other denizens of the great citadel, for sleep did not come easy to one so troubled by the dark. The city stayed much in this state until Faramir arrived.

It was the foul screeches that alerted Mabrand upon that morning. He took up his axe and ran to the battlements, eager to see what fell sorcery the darkness had unleashed upon the city. When he reached the battlements, Mabrand was paralysed by fear itself. Winged foes, screeching like death, hideous and black like night, flew about the Pelennor. A group of horseman fled across the plain, horses crying and bucking out of pure fear. Mabrand let out a cry, realising that it was the lord Faramir pursued by these atrocities of nature. A call soon echoed across the battlements, as soldiers stared in amazement. “Mithrandir!” they cried! “The White Rider has come!”  
And so he had. Mabrand had never met the great wizard, but the stories were enough. Now, he looked as if the Valar themselves had embodied the man. A figure of white upon a white horse, faster than the wind, flew across the plain, staff raised up at the winged abominations. A shaft of light erupted from his hand, and the servants of Sauron screeched in fear. And so, the white wizard drove away the shadow, buying time for the Lord.

Mabrand was not permitted to attend the great meeting of the Lords that day. Forlong attended, as much for the food as for the war council. Mabrand learned many a thing from his father though. The lord Faramir was to ride back to the Rammas Echor; he was required to protect the outer walls, a last ditch attempt to secure the forts against the servants of evil. The following morning, he left, as swiftly as he arrived. In the armour of his forefathers Faramir looked more kingly than any other man there that day, save Imrahil himself. His bravery and courage gave hope to all.

The hope did not last, for after a day, the walls of the Pelennor were lost to the enemy. A rear guard rode across the plains, the fell arrows of the orcs taking out many brave men. It was now that Imrahil called for a charge. “Imrahil for Faramir!” the lordly prince cried. “For Gondor!”  
Every able horseman was spared. Some called it a foolish venture of no return. Forlong was one of them. Mabrand ran down to the stables and leapt upon his bay steed. His father waited by the gates. Forlong waited by the gates as Mabrand led his Axemen out of the gate, speechless to Mabrand’s idiocy. Mabrand ignored him. “For Gondor!” he bellowed, raising his axe far into the air, calling out a speechless war cry. The men responded in turn, and charged out of the gate.  
The charge of Imrahil did little to sway the course of battle.Mabrand returned, covered in orc blood and red with fatigue, to his father. Their eyes never met. The Lord Faramir had been recovered, moments away from death. All hope was lost. Gondor was under siege. The war for their lives had begun.


End file.
